He was yet far from perceiving that no man is a believer, let him give his body to be burned, except he give his will, his life to the Master. No man is a believer with whom he and his father are not first, no man, in a word, who does not obey him, that is, who does not do what he said, and says. It seems preposterous that such a definition should be necessary. But thousands talk about him for one that believes in him. Thousands will do what the priests and scribes say he commands, for one who will search to find what he says that he may do it—who will take his orders from the Lord himself, and not from other men claiming either knowledge or authority.

A man must come up to the Master, hearken to his word, and do as he says. Then he will come to know God, and to know that he knows him.

Richard did not once ask himself, “Does she love me?” He said, “She cares for me, she is good to me. I wish I believed as she does that I might hope to meet her again in the house of God.”

It was Saturday night, and he had to go through a weekly market—a hurrying, pushing, loitering, jostling crowd, gathered thick about the butchers’ and fishmongers’ shops, the greengrocers’ barrows, and the trays upon wheels with things laid out for sale. Suddenly a face flashed upon him and disappeared. He was not sure that it was Alice’s, but it suggested Alice so strongly that he turned and tried to overtake it. Slowed down by his luggage, however, which caught upon the hundreds of legs, he soon saw the attempt was hopeless. Then painfully he remembered that he did not have her address and had no way to communicate with her. He still longed to know why she had left him without a word, and what her avoidance of him meant. Even more, he desired to help her.

But Barbara was her friend. Barbara knew her address! He would ask her to send it to him! It would be a reason to write her. His heart gave a bound. Who could tell, maybe she might please to send him the fan-wind of a letter now and then, keeping the door, just a chink of it, open between them. He walked the rest of the way with a gladder heart. He was no longer without a future—there was something to do, something to wait for! Days are dreary unto death which wrap no hope in their misty folds.